Fever
by Super212
Summary: One-shot based off the first Elder Scrolls game, a game which I've never played but which gave me inspiration to write. Nothing special, but something to start my collection of works.


Hamel had a fever.

Nothing serious, but the infant wasn't going to sleep anytime soon, coughing, sneezing, and worst of all for Ytala, the crying, the whining. She sat by the side of Hamel's crib, made of uneven wooden beams and dressed in some of her rattier sheets. She had been very thankful that her husband had made the crib, possibly too thankful. It was the most work Brigby had done all his life, at least while married to her.

As the baby dozed for a few moments, Ytala toiled over a bucket of cold water, rag in hand, wringing it out methodically. With careful hands she laid the cloth upon the infants forehead, but her lack of fortune prevailed, and Hamel woke from his doze, coughing once more, and sobbing weakly, reflective of the pain in his throat. Ytala sighed and, after a few dabs on the face, replaced the cloth in the bucket. She picked up her son and pressed him against her breast, humming a lullaby softly. Her motherly side felt sorry for the poor child, but she still felt cheated of her sleep. If Brigby hadn't been drinking through the wee hours and flirting unsuccessfully with bartenders down at the Wild Wolf he could have helped her, she could have relaxed a bit. Instead, here she stood, nearly one in the morning, tending to her sick-

A noise. Not clear or loud, just a noise. Unrecognizable to Ytala's ears, she felt the chilled water she had had her hands in earlier flow through her body. It had come from outside, that was for sure, past the faded drapes and the glass panes. And yet, she did not feel safe. Staring at the drapes she placed Hamel down in his crib once more, and reapplied the cloth, much to his displeasure.

With what she felt was necessary stealth, Ytala slunk over to the lone window in the room. She pulled back the hanging curtains just enough so her eyes could get a wide berth, and peered out onto the frosty lane. All was dark. Hers was the only window with light in it, as dim as it was, a single candle. She pulled the veil back farther so as to peer down the lane. Near the end she could just see the lights of another inn, the Wild Wolf's sole competitor in the town. She didn't even know its name, very revealing of its unpopularity. Still it stayed open long through the night, like a beacon on this end of the town.

Then she heard it again, and she could not mistake it. It was a growl. Not very deep nor rumbling, but a growl nonetheless. It came from the end of the lane that Ytala had not been staring down. Without even looking back she shut the curtains and fell back awkwardly, nearly submerging her foot in her bucket. She looked back at Hamel, motherly instinct taking over. He was still wide-awake, but his cough had softened a bit, now more of a throat clearing noise, more phlegm. He was fine besides that. He had not heard the sound.

She had, and it bothered her. It could have been a stray dog, sure, but it had sounded, sounded, evil. She hated to think it, her, Ytala, daughter of the farmer Davahns, married woman, mother, never anything suspicious in her life might be dealing with something _evil_. For the first time in years, she hated to think it as well, she wished her husband were around. He had served in the Imperial Army as a younger man, and could certainly detain whatever unholy creature was lurking outside her window. Stopping that sound.

After checking to make sure Hamel was still all right (she had admittedly lost focus on the child's illness) she hustled out of the room. When she returned merely a minute later, she was no longer wishing that her husband were with her. He would have laughed. There Ytala stood, dressed in her flimsy nightgown, holding his old hunting dagger, rusted and cracked along the hilt. He would have let loose his old guffaw and told her to put away a "man's tool". And she wouldn't have. She had heard that the Dark Brotherhood hired women. They worked well with "man's tools".

Once again she crept towards the window, gripping and regripping the weapon in her hand. She had no idea what the old knife would do if whatever was out there entered her home, but it made her feel safer all the same. Sure, she had heard the stories from her father about the "things" that crawled around villages after dark. That's why he was a farmer, and why he had very vehemently tried to stop her from moving in with the "warrin' boy, he got 'n ego bigger than 'is brain, missy". In the stories no one ever seemed to live. But she had never believed the stories, and a dagger was better than her tiny fists.

She crouched beneath the windowsill, ears open wide. And she heard it again. Closer, much closer. She had to stifle a girlish squeal. No, she would be strong, for Hamel, and for herself, whatever it was out there. She could hear it moving now, from the sound it made, it was large, not like a mammoth, but it could tackle her to the ground. Unless of course her ears were playing tricks on her, like the one time she thought her husband had said "Thank you."

Now she could hear sniffing, right outside the window. She hoped beyond hope that it would just _leave her be_. She was just a married woman, she had done nothing to upset the Daedra, the Aedra, or anybody else up above her. Why _her_? The dagger was shaking in her hand as she held back the tears of fear; the _thing _was so close she could almost feel it, even through the barrier of her wooden wall. As she tried to once more pull herself together, she heard something quite unexpected.

"That woman's got too many brains for her own-"

"What was that Fogel?"

"Look Brigby, look straight ahead."

"By Lorkhan, what was that?"

"It looked like a wolf, I think."

"That was not a wolf. Too big. Couldn't be."

"Wolves can be big too Brig, my cousin saw one that big in Skyrim."

"Bah, them Nords. They could use some of you wife's brains."

Ytala breathed a sigh of relief, loud enough that she wouldn't have been surprised if Fogel and her husband had heard it. Luckily, Hamel, who had drifted off for good, had not heard it. She got up slowly, wiped the sweat off her brow and quietly walked over to her son. Still slightly pale, he did look peaceful at the moment. She decided that the cloth would remain; she didn't want to try her luck once more.

At that moment Brigby walked in, and came upon Ytala in her nightgown, dagger in hand. And he guffawed, and he told her to put away his "man's tool". He didn't care about Hamel, saying he was a strong boy, he himself had fought through hundreds of sicknesses, why shouldn't his son. He blew out the candle, hooked his arm around Ytala's, and half guided half dragged her into their bedroom. She grimaced.

Later that night, after Brigby had started to snore, and Hamel had descended into a silent sleep once more, Ytala remained wide awake. As quietly as possible, she extricated her hand from the blankets and reached down under her bed. Her fingers whispering across the floor, she felt around until the cold hilt of her husband's old dagger was in her grasp. She pulled it up, lifted her pillow slightly, and slid it under. She liked this "man's tool". It had felt good in her hand when the wolf-creature had been outside her door. As weak as she had been, it had given her a glimmer of hope. A wolf, she could've handled a wolf with a dagger.

And what could kill a wolf, could certainly gut a pig.


End file.
